


thief of peace

by TransSilver



Series: Inquisition Fics/Fix-its [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Assassination, BDSM, Cadash-Centric (Dragon Age), Carta Noble Hunter Inquisitor, Carta lore baybee, Chronic Pain, Cognitive Dissonance, Dark Past, Dissociation, Drinking, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarven Carta (Dragon Age), Enthusiastic Consent, Eventual Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, Hurt Dorian Pavus, Hurt first, Jane Austen but make it kinky, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Morally Grey, Multi, Orzammar Culture and Customs, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repression, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Scars, Sex Work, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Hurt/Comfort, Softer than it sounds, Sort Of, The Anchor (Dragon Age), Trans Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Trans Male Character, Trans Male Inquisitor, Trauma, Unresolved Emotional Tension, cadash used to be a good person and wants to be one again, cadash worked as a carta noble-hunter b4 coming out, canon alcoholism, cause its bull romance, he does a whole lot of, hurt iron bull, king of compartmentalization, literally chapter 2 is almost entirely kink negotiation, past dubious consent, solas is a good friend, the fact that that isn't a tag is so sad. let my man hurt, then worked as an assassin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:53:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25178731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TransSilver/pseuds/TransSilver
Summary: "At some point, waking up from pain had gone from alarming, to a mild annoyance, to ordinary. As he shakes out his left hand, he muses that whenever it was, he had probably been too young."or;An ex-Carta Inquisitor struggles to regain empathy for the world that took it from him
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Male Cadash/Dorian Pavus, Male Cadash/Iron Bull, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Iron Bull, Male Inquisitor/Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Inquisition Fics/Fix-its [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2183541
Comments: 12
Kudos: 25





	1. "hate me, hate me not"

At some point, waking up from pain had gone from alarming, to a mild annoyance, to ordinary. As he shakes out his left hand, he muses that whenever it was, he had probably been too young.

A plush bed with freshly washed linens hasn't been his ordinary for some time, so waking up on the floor of his Skyhold bedroom is also unsurprising. Using his good hand, he pushes himself up, maneuvering until he can rest his back against the bed frame, waiting for the pins and needles to ebb from the Anchor so that he can start the day.

Considering he'd apparently managed to get out of his uniform and even laid down a blanket for himself the night before, it is already shaping up to be a better day than most. 

It's only a few minutes before he's ready to stand, and the Anchor has calmed to a manageable pulse by the time he's fastened his veridian coat. Having non-armored clothes is one of many adjustments he's had to make since becoming Inquisitor, but at least the enchantments Dagna applied to it leave him almost just as protected.

Not that he's supposed to anticipate a fight here (or as Leliana explained,  _ look _ as if he's anticipating a fight). Skyhold is much more defensible than Haven, and, now that he's accepted his role, the people's opinion of him is generally positive.

Still, when he breaks his fast with Solas in the tower, he waits for the mage's detection spell to wash over the food, and for the elf to give a satisfied nod, before taking his first bite.

"Master Cadash—"

"Honestly, Solas, at this point I might have you go back to 'Inquisitor'-ing me. I don't know how Varric can stand it." The smirk playing on the mage's face does not go unnoticed by Cadash, but right now his role is Exhausted Superior to Solas's Obedient Scholar, so he feigns ignorance. Better to let Solas have fun 'succeeding' at riling him up than to somehow let slip what actually upsets him.

"Inquisitor, then;" Solas's smile this time is genuine, some of the humor slipping from it as his curiosity takes hold. "I understand the need for extra safeguards, especially after Haven," real sorrow shows for a moment at that, though distant, like most of the mage's emotions are, "but I highly doubt someone would take the risk of poisoning the general food stores just to get to you."

This is Solas trying to reassure him, and, however unnecessary it is, Cadash does appreciate it. "I doubt it as well, my friend. But to get at the infamous elven appostate swaying their dear Herald…" he trails off with a smirk of his own, much larger and pulling at the scar on his lip. His elven friend takes the joke for what it is, and changes to another topic. 

Truthfully, having his food checked is just the one tradition for leadership he can bring from his past, a signal to himself more than anyone that his role is important. Solas already believes Cadash is important, so the knowledge that he needs such reassurance would only make the mage fear he isn't up for the task.

Their morning chat is pleasant, quickly turning theoretical as most of their conversations do. Coming to the Conclave, Cadash hadn’t expected an elven mage and Fade expert to become one of his closest friends; he hadn’t expected to meet anyone at all, and once he was captured, hadn’t expected to live through the night. But his life rarely goes as expected, and he welcomes his aid and companionship.

He eventually notices the sunlight creeping under the door leading to the battlements. “Well Solas, I’m afraid I must attend to my duties; ‘no rest for the wicked’ and all that.”

“I know it all too well,” Solas responds, helping to clear their ‘dishes’ (the cloth he brought the food in and two glasses), “but before you leave, I have a request.”

Remembering his last request, Cadash halts his exit: “Name it.”

Solas puts a hand on his shoulder, and that smile is back again: humor, and curiosity, and a distant sadness. “Take a break today,  _ lethallin _ . Attend to what cannot wait, then find Master Tethras or your Tevinter companion.”

It’s now confusion that halts him; “Were we not breaking just now? I could hardly call our discussion ‘work’.”

Solas barks a laugh at that, rare and less refined; “I think there are few who would call a debate on the ramifications of Rift study on the wider perception of the Fade ‘rest’, though I’m pleased conversing with me is no chore.” He drops his hand, returning to his desk to search through his papers; “I know it’s something foreign to us both, but try to spend a moment thinking on things that don’t concern the fate of all Thedas. Don’t forget I kept you breathing for days—I can tell when you’re working yourself ragged.” Seemingly having found the paper he needed, the elf returns to Cadash’s side and waves a glowing hand over the Anchor; his hand smarts for a moment, then the sensation from earlier in the morning fades, leaving only the usual tingling. 

“You must tell me when the Anchor is troubling you. I cannot stabilize it, but you do not have to be in pain.” Hearing the guilt in Solas’s voice is enough to calm any frustration he has at the man. He still feels like a child caught hiding an injury so they could keep playing, but it’s hardly Solas’ fault that Cadash has to work through his pain.

And work he does; now that proper trade routes have been established, Skyhold is visited every day by new dignitaries, offering allegiance or voicing grievances. Josephine is able to delegate enough that he’s only speaking with them when absolutely necessary, but with preparations for the Winter Palace underway, the category of ‘necessary’ has grown more and more each day. Then there are the routine duties: approving dignitary, scouting, and reconnaissance missions of their own; overseeing reconstruction efforts; and regular strategizing with his advisors. 

At least he’d been able to convince them he didn’t need combat training— after evaluations from Cullen, Solas, and Leliana. Considering all of them were aware of his Carta background, and all had witnessed him fight previously, he’d thought they were disparaging him with the suggestion, but by now he’s accepted the legitimate need they all have for a leader they know is in prime fighting condition.

It is only as his day of work is winding down, all essential tasks completed, that he remembers Solas's request. All his instincts tell him to brush it off; he'll continue to pour over maps and shipping manifests until the young hours of morning, pass out for a few hours (just few enough that he doesn't get the new and terrifying 'dreams' the Anchor has given him), and wake up just after the sun as he has every day since they got here. 

But, whether it's the memory of the guilt and concern in his friend's usually even tone, or some long-buried part of him begging for rest, he ends up walking into the Herald's Rest half-past sundown, no scrolls in hand. Cabot's look of surprise as he's spotted makes him feel  _ something _ . Has it really been that long since he's been in the tavern? Cadash was certainly present for the opening, which was before the events of Adamant… 

Maybe the collective shock of the tavern at his presence has some merit. He nods to the other surfacer, holding up two fingers for his order— whatever costs five silver a pint. He'd learned long ago that anything under that would get you piss-weak ale at most taverns, and with coffers as inconsistent as the Inquisition's he doubts it's any different. After getting Cabot's nod, he properly scans the people there; Solas had suggested Varric, but the man wasn't there, being much busier than he likes to let on. And if Cadash truly wanted to relax, it's doubtful he'd pick the Merchant Prince (who is frequently on the wrong side of the Carta) to do it with.

No, there's a reason he came to the tavern, and that reason is Bull. He's not on the closest terms with the Qunari, both being 'spies' (though both of their roles could never be so easily defined). In the beginning, they tended towards a professional distance, Cadash put off by his openness and the Iron Bull by his secrecy. But after he saw Bull’s sacrifice in Alexius’ future, and through both of their coping with the Fade, they’ve come to an understanding, even camaraderie. And unlike whatever intellectual pursuit Solas probably expected of him, his idea of relaxation aligns much more with his understanding of Bull's.

Krem and Rocky are in front of the table usually reserved for Bull’s company, debating something amiably. Krem is the first to spot him coming over, immediately putting his hands against his legs and executing a loose Tevene bow. Rocky executes a perhaps overly familiar Ferelden bow, arm across his chest and a quick dip of the head, but Cadash catches his right foot moving to ‘scrape’ the earth as he’d no doubt done in Orzammar. Filing this away, he gives both a friendly nod. “I must say gentlemen, if I’d wanted to be in the middle of another shouting match I’d go back to the dignitaries.”

That gets a hearty laugh out of Bull’s lieutenant; “Comparing us to those Orlesians? You wound us, Your Worship!” The human had finally lost some of the formal stiffness he’d carried around him after Bull had invited him to drinks with the Chargers; all it’d taken was his agreeing that the shirtless Qunari could use some chest binding, and it was as if Krem had finally set down a weight he’d been carrying for years. Their dynamic is still largely professional, but neither restrain themselves from giving the other lip. 

He and Rocky haven't had reason to interact much, but Cadash gets the distinct impression that the former Orzammar noble takes a vindictive pleasure in being employed under a fellow Casteless, and Carta no less (and as Cadash is confident Rocky isn’t aware of what his work with the Carta used to entail, he feels no need to disabuse him of the notion). 

“I doubt those stuffy bastards ‘d be arguing ‘bout what we are anyways, Herald;” Rocky says with a grin, largely hidden beneath his mustache, "but after dealin' with 'em all day, I bet you're lookin' for some stress relief—" The older dwarf's grin grows almost licentious, and Cadash is about to re-evaluate his conclusion on his lack of knowledge when Rocky is cut off by a not-at-all subtle elbow to the ribs from Krem.

"Keep that up and I'm taking your coin out of the pool," the lieutenant growls under his breath, before straightening to address him again; "Chief's up in his room if you needed him, Your Worship." And executing a shorter bow, he leaves the tavern, dragging a protesting sapper with him.

Cadash isn’t clueless; he’s well aware his flirtations with Bull have been less than subtle, and the Qunari has responded in kind. That the Chargers have a betting pool about their Chief bedding him is hardly surprising, considering they have a similar one on Skinner and Dalish (who have actually been seeing each other for some time, taking advantage of the Inquisition’s insistence that they not be bunked with the rest of Bull’s men. The agent who’d relayed this to him had done so with ruddy cheeks, her ears still twitching).

But that’s not why his feet carry him up to the tavern’s adjoining room, at least not entirely. Tonight he wants to be taken out of his head, whatever way the Iron Bull sees fit. He lets the sound of his footfall carry at the volume most would expect of as heavy a race as dwarves, to let Bull’s trained ears know this is a non-work visit. Being born into the Carta, moving silently is as natural as breathing, but part of accepting his role of leadership has been learning to take up space. 

True to form, Bull’s door is unlocked, so Cadash steps in, shutting it with intention behind him. The man he's hoping to see is sitting on a chair, one that would probably seem extravagantly large under anyone else, but is dwarfed by his imposing form. Facing the doorway, he's polishing the buckles on his harness, taking care of the metal to an extent most wouldn't expect from such a large, battle-happy man. 

His eye flicks up at his entrance, not surprised at Cadash's presence, but curious. "What can I do for you, Boss?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literally no promises on an update schedule, but i hope you like my boy. you'll learn his name soon he just literally can't reveal anything personal without a couple hours of careful analysis.  
> also slow burn is tagged for a Reason even though next chapter him and bull are gonna boink, they're Not getting together (he's actually gonna end up getting together with dorian first, but stuff has to happen before that too). still, its slow burn by my slow writing standards so like, four chapters? lmao im impatient  
> please tell me if you think anything should be tagged/warnings should be put on this chapter! i'll put warnings in the summaries of chapters but nothing stood out to me this chapter.
> 
> title is the meaning of my boys first name so big ups to anyone who can guess it, and all chapter titles will be from "Murders" by Miracle Musical


	2. coveting indiscreetly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning for kink negotiation (including mentions of edgeplay), power exchange, very vague implications of past dubious consent, and severe trust issues

Feeling no need to beat around the bush as he might with a politician, Cadash is direct: "I've heard you specialize in sex with added elements, bondage and power struggles, and I find myself in need of your expertise." There is a certain thrill in not having to coat his request in the pompous language of the Orzammar courts (even if that is overshadowed by the greater…  _ something _ , of choosing who he gets to engage like this).

The smile Bull gives in response is much less lecherous than he'd expected, nothing like the overexaggerated grins he often throws him while they banter. Curiosity is still the closest thing that comes to mind, but there's an added calmness, a surety in himself. He clearly considers the idea of himself as an 'expert' in these things seriously, like his is the expertise of a healer or priest. Cadash is reminded of the discussion they'd had about Tamassrans, and wonders if the Qunari might have taken that role, given the choice.

He sets down what he was working on, making no secret of the way he scans the dwarf's body as he sits back up. "So which 'elements' are you interested in? Bondage? Power struggles?" He parrots, before tilting his head in thought, those broad horns making the small gesture seem almost comically large. "And d'you want it with sex, or separate?"

The casual way he says it makes it seem like what he's just said is the most normal thing in the world. And for the Qun (or just for Bull, as the two are much more different than Bull wants to believe), maybe it is; maybe taking these… extraneous measures with no sex involved  _ is _ considered normal. For Cadash, it's something he's never considered. Sure, he'd known other Carta members to prefer a good spanking over the sex that follows it, but the two had always been intertwined. 

Knowing Bull, just this short time Cadash has taken to think is being calculated and filed away into his analysis of how to handle the situation. There's a stool at the foot of the bed, and he makes his way over to it, sending a silent thanks down to the Stone that the seat is short by surface standards, instead of Qunari-scale like the other furniture. 

"Sex is on the table for me, but not a requirement." Cadash is painfully aware that, while Bull may be taking control in this exchange, he is still the Inquisitor, someone Bull is required by their own work and his Qun orders to get along with, so he doesn't want any part of their agreement to feel like an order. 

He watches the mercenary leader process that, having no doubt that Bull is checking his sincerity before responding; "It's on the table for me too, as I'm sure you've guessed," now his grin is the lascivious type Cadash is more familiar with; "but you didn't answer my first question: what is it  _ exactly _ you want from me." The way his tongue flicks out on 'exactly' makes it painfully clear how  _ long _ his tongue is, and wide to match the rest of him.

Cadash finds his throat dry as he tries to consolidate his nebulous desires into something Bull can act on. From his… experience, he hasn’t formed any real preferences for what is  _ physically _ happening in the scene; what he’s always enjoyed is the moment when, after minutes or hours of being pushed almost as far as he can go, his mind empties, body becoming relaxed and pliant, and the only thought he can form is doing whatever the other wants of him. 

Bull seems to sense his uncertainty (because of course he would); "I get it; sometimes it's easier to say what you definitely don't want, and go from there." Something about the man tells Cadash that Bull has never had much difficulty saying what he wants, but it wouldn't surprise him if previous partners have found themselves at a loss for words when they finally get to his room.

"How's about I start?" Bull's ability to make himself seem smaller is something Cadash can't be anything but impressed with. He of course has his own training, to be unassuming and blend with the shadows when needed, but he's also half the Qunari's size. And yet, even a full two heads above him sitting down, Bull isn't looming at all.

Instead, he looks open and relaxed, as if talking with an equal. If the leaders of House Cadash had taught anything through example, it was that a lack of fearful reverence from a subordinate would be of the utmost offense. This Cadash welcomes it. They should be equals in this, if nothing else.

"Most edge-play is off limits for me in a first session—knives, fire, harsher role-play/fear scenes— though choking with minimal breathplay can be negotiated." The words fall from Bull's mouth, sitting in the space between them. Cadash has heard of most of this (and done all of it), but it's rare to hear someone talk about it without resorting to innuendo, or giving up on verbal communication entirely. "Master/Slave roleplay and dynamics are a hard limit, as is possession, though unless that hand of yours," he points his closer horn to the Anchor, "has any tricks we don't know about, I think we're good on that part." And he. Blinks his one eye, shutting it tight while tilting his head… Oh.

He can't help the laugh startled out of him; Bull just  _ winked _ . "I believe you're safe from that." Clearing his throat (laughing probably shouldn't ache this much), he continues; "As for the rest, I find I have little desire for it myself.”

They allow the silence to sit between them for a moment longer before the Iron Bull splits it: "Alright, and limits on your end?”

He represses the instinct to snap at the implication that there’s anything he can’t handle, that he’s weak, because Bull had already admitted what he himself was uncomfortable with so freely. 

“No leg restraints, nothing that leaves marks on my face, no feminizing language.” But there is another limit, one he's never expressed, one that for most encounters hadn't been an option. With Bull, maybe…

"And no penetration of my front." If this is something Bull expects, Cadash will just leave. The Qunari had said sex was on the table, and he has no doubt Bull is already aware of his similarity to his Tevinter Lieutenant. This part of him, now and forever, will not be given to sate others.

"Got it."

And… that's it. His companion doesn't pry, doesn't ask him to clarify what he's referring to, doesn't demand to know 'how much of him is a man'. Just displays a simple acceptance that leaves him feeling something he doesn't have the time or energy to unpack, something warm and earth-shattering that could bring tears to his eyes if he let it. But he doesn't, as what Bull's words have also left him is a newfound sureness that Cadash wants to spend their night together.

Bull carries on, with no hints of disappointment, "Now, as for how this's gonna work—" 

"—The Iron Bull?" 

"So formal, Boss. What's up?" When he responds, it's clear to Cadash that, though he's injecting humor into the situation, Bull is already calculating what misstep he's made, that Cadash would interrupt so hesitantly. 

Putting on a smile, he struggles to balance his approach between the commanding officer he doesn't wish to be, and the person he'd been in those Orzammar beds that he no longer is. Somehow, that leaves his response honest: "I thought it only fair to address you by your name when I asked you to address me by mine." 

Bull nods his assent, but doesn't speak. He becomes confused that the spy would wait for Cadash to give his name, as he's sure it has appeared in Bull's Ben-Hassrath reports. Eventually, he pieces it together: one of the few things Bull knows for certain about him is that the world saw his gender differently when he was born, and so it stands to reason he doesn't know if the name on record is the one he prefers now.

Not having said his full name for nearly a year (and only having said it a handful of times over the decade he's had it), it feels strange coming from his mouth: "Fritjof Cadash."

"Freet-yolf," Bull dutifully repeats, and he can't help but smirk at the pronunciation. The polylingual Qunari certainly does better than most would, but a name from one of the forgotten Dwarven languages was hard enough for Orzammar natives (And isn't that part of why he chose it? A name so abstracted by history that he could choose not just who speaks it, but  _ how _ ).

Being no doubt even more familiar with foreigners mispronouncing his language, Bull takes Fritjof's teasing with a smile of his own; "Alright; you got a watchword,  _ Fritjof _ ?"

The word comes to his lips easier than it ever did in a scene: " _ Veata _ ."

Bull groans with put-upon disappointment; "Aw, damn! Normally I'm the one who gets to pull out the pretty words." He leers at the end, though it feels more… familiar, like he's being told an inside joke. "If I hear  _ veata _ I stop. If I hear 'no', 'stop', or you just don't seem that into it, I'll still stop, but I'll probably ask a few questions, and if you get to a point where you wanna continue, we can. If you watchword, we'll be done for the night, and the only question I'll ask is if you want to be left alone."

Knowing how considerate (and observant) the Iron Bull can be, Fritjof doubts he'll make use of his watchword tonight, but having it established is always comforting. "And will you use  _ veata _ for yours as well?"

The question seems to take Bull off guard for a moment— Fritjof makes note of the reaction before it's spirited away. "Hm. Yeah, I'll use that; though since I'm more familiar with it, I could end up saying ' _ katoh _ ' as well."

"Understood," he says, and gives what he hopes is a relaxed grin; he's never been able to tell what looks relaxed on his face, if that's even possible. "While I've come to you with no strong preferences as to what our scene looks like, I get the sense you have a few ideas."

Bull's grin takes on the predatory glint that had been absent, and as desire swoops low in his chest, Fritjof is reminded of the more primal reason he chose the large Qunari. "You sensed correctly. I figure tonight,  _ I'll _ be the boss, Boss." One of Bull's clawed fingers traces Cadash's jaw, the sharp nail pressing just hard enough to scrape without breaking the skin. "I think part of you is tired of being in charge, wants to relinquish control, and I want to give that to you."

He finds it hard to swallow as that nail travels over his neck. "I think I'd like that," it comes out as a hoarse whisper, his throat bobbing under Bull's finger. His response prompts Bull to smile, but it feels almost more like the baring of teeth. 

The Qunari's other hand moves to Fritjof's wrist. He's certain the trained Ben-Hassrath notices the way his pulse jumps under those grey fingers, but he can't control his body reacting to further proof of just how  _ large _ the other man is. Bull is able to circle his wrist with only two fingers, and maintains this deceptively loose hold as he rises to his feet, forcing Fritjof to stand with him.

Stood facing each other, inches apart, their size difference is made only more apparent, Fritjof's head only making it to Bull's stomach. Some part of him insists he should be unnerved at this, but all he feels is excitement, and something like gratitude that the person he's chosen to lie with is so different from the dwarves of Orzammar.

Instead of moving them to the bed, Bull uses the hand not holding his wrist to push him back, and Fritjof concedes, moving blindly backward until he feels his back meet the wall. Like this, Bull's figure positively crowds over him.

With little effort, Bull pulls his other wrist into the same grasp as the first, binding them together with one calloused hand. Bull forces his arms up as one, his knuckles almost scraping the wall behind him, and just like that he is bound. His head feels light already, blood rushing and taking his thoughts with it. The fear he'd predicted he'd feel, at least at the beginning, is nowhere to be found, only a darker thrill remaining.

That one eye so effectively captures his attention, and Fritjof sees himself, trapped and helpless and  _ open _ , reflected back at him. Bull's pupil is dilated, that icy blue swallowed almost completely by black. "That's good, Cadash. Let go."

And then, swift as a viper, that perpetually grinning mouth is on his neck, scraping sharp teeth against him. He feels his own pulse push his sensitive skin into that maw, can  _ feel _ how easily Bull could bite and draw blood. But he doesn't, and he won't.

Because Fritjof  _ trusts _ him not to. For the first time in months (in years, in his life) he can trust, and let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> veata is old dwarven for stop  
> name reveal time baybee! fritjof views Cadash, Inquisitor, and Fritjof as separate people/roles he fills, because compartmentalization is the name of the game.  
> i swear this was supposed to just be a smut chapter but both these boys Struggle with needing things and trusting others so it only got as smutty as the game gets.  
> whats coming up next is personal quest time, starting with dorian! cadash has been flirting with both of them but has made a more personal connection with dorian so you'll get to see the sweet side he swears he doesn't have


	3. shown what they were

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings for Dorian's canon backstory, heavy drinking/drunkenness, and non-sexual act that could be seen as dubiously consensual

After that night, he and the Qunari come to something of an understanding, and they have their exchanges of power whenever Cadash can make the time (which is less than he wants, but more than he feels entitled to). 

When they aren't convalescing, he is either in meetings or on missions, and his 'Tevinter Companion' is steadily occupying more space in both, even when not there. On the surface, speaking with Dorian or Bull seem like polar opposite experiences, but Fritjof has found they're more similar than either would admit.

Where Dorian has his fineries and haughtiness, Iron Bull has his bared chest and geniality; from his time in the Carta to now, he's grown adept at recognizing masks. Both of them use others' perceptions of them to mask their true thoughts and abilities, playing the foppish magister or the stupid ox-man.

And on a base level, both men are as engaging to speak with as they are to look at. At first, he would only bring Dorian where his particular expertise was required, but when he finds himself racing to the library (despite his travel-worn knees' protests) just to hear the man's thoughts on his trip to the Exalted Plains, Cadash recognizes he wants Dorian around for his companionship as well.

His flirtations may have been mere habit back in Haven, but Dorian certainly seems to hold an affection for him now. It would be unfair of Fritjof to deepen their relationship; if he isn't killed by Corypheus and his minions, he knows this mark will be the end of him. Solas has provided his assurances, and he's normally happy to default to the elf's magical expertise, but he is a dwarf: he knows the foreign magic embedded in his hand is opposed to his very nature.

It would be unfair, yet just as he can tell Dorian's affection for him has grown, he feels his own growing to match. He knows the altus is under no illusions to the likelihood of their survival and, world-saving martyrdom aside, Fritjof has learned not to deny himself that which is freely given.

The days after news of Felix's death reaches Skyhold mark a noticeable shift in their dynamic. It is one thing to flirt, to exchange knowledge and share in the success and losses of battle; if what they had before could be likened to holding hands, accompanying Dorian in his grief is holding the mage's torn heart in his torn hands and trying to will the wounds not to touch.

So when Mother Giselle confronts him with the letter, and Magister Pavus's  _ request _ , he selfishly wishes she had brought it to someone else. Dorian has been open in his grief, but from how deeply the mage seems to feel things Fritjof knows it has not been entirely by choice. And yet Thedas sees fit to drive his hands into another of Dorian's wounds, one so deep and festered it still weeps  _ years _ after Dorian had driven out the source. To be forced to participate in it's reopening makes him sick, and yes, he wishes it was brought to someone else to spare Dorian the further unequal vulnerability, but more than that he wants to spare  _ himself _ of it. 

If he has held the mage's heart, then Dorian hasn't even  _ heard _ his; the other man has been free in his praise of Cadash's "drive" and "goodness", but even after all these months he doesn't know  _ Fritjof _ , knows only the version of him he's put on every morning since he woke in Haven. And had they continued as they were, perhaps stumbling into bed a few times along the way, that would have been enough. But if Dorian is to be flayed open in front of him, then he deserves it to be done with someone he  _ knows _ , someone he  _ trusts _ .

And selfishly, oh so selfishly, Fritjof doesn't want to be that someone; he doesn't know if he  _ can.  _ The vulnerability he's shown to Bull is of the physical kind, and he knows the Ben-Hassrath wouldn't take anything more than that even if offered. The dwarven nobles he'd been with in the past had held no illusions of a relationship, even if his work was 'successful'. If he tries, he can remember a mother, a childhood friend, but whatever young part of him able to reciprocate closeness is something he cut out long ago, and all the masks and pretty lies in all of Thedas can't replace it.

Cadash can't afford selfishness, however; a message has been sent, and Dorian deserves to know of it.

The mage's eyes brighten when he's spotted making his way up to the library, and it's a definite improvement over their sunken-in state this past week. He thinks Dorian might be wearing kohl as well, but the alcove is too shadowed to tell. 

When Dorian makes a flirtatious guess as to the letter's contents, he resists the urge to crumple it and pretend it was a ruse to see him, anything to keep that new smile on his face. "It's from your father." Blunt, in the way that'd been trained out of him long ago. 

He hands it over at Dorian's request, wishing he'd broken the seal to check its contents beforehand; he's certain Leliana did so, if not one of her agents, but surely his knowledge of the man before him would allow him some insight, let him catch a hidden threat they could not.

"'I know my son'? What my father knows of me would barely fill a thimble!" Were it any other conversation, Fritjof might laugh; Paragons, he'd laughed at worse,  _ said  _ worse about his family or his work or the general tragedy of his life to get a laugh out of someone else. But there's something… detached in the way Dorian says it, the anger performative.

It's clear there's no love lost between him and his father, and Fritjof has know doubt Dorian hates him, something fundamentally broken between them that Dorian has every intent to never make whole. But underneath that anger, there is a well of  _ hurt _ , bubbling over and threatening to spill out, out of him—shame and pain, sadness and fear all blended into one.

Dorian still decides to go, asking Cadash to accompany him under the guise of security.  _ You're the only person I can trust _ goes unspoken, but it's never needed to be said between them; as far as Dorian is concerned, the only person who would stand between him and a hanging is Cadash. 

Cadash brings Cole, Sera, and Bull with them to Redcliffe as well—the two rogues can stake out the tavern, Cole being a particular advantage for sensing enemies or calling in potential reinforcements, and Bull capable of taking quick control of combat. They dually act as his response:  _ You trust them, too. _

_ (please trust them instead) _

The tavern is clear of all but one person; Cole doesn't say anything about them, just stills. Then— 

"Tangled, twisted,  _ tainted; _ love, but for the idea, the product, not the person… I don't  _ understand _ ."

A blank mask has slid over Dorian's face—not the usual smile he hides behind, thin enough to see through, but a blankness that latches onto his bones, leaving nothing to read. "I do."

A mage immediately identifiable as Halward Pavus steps out from the shadows, standing as a perfect reflection and juxtaposition of his son. Dorian is paler, features sharper, fashion more flamboyant and stance more defensive. And yet, in the jut of their chins, the furrow of their brows, and in the trained quiet confidence in which they hold themselves, they become each other's mirror. 

Halward's words quickly prove to be unimportant; it is clear he feels guilt for what he's done to  _ himself _ , forfeiting an heir, his legacy. 

"I prefer the company of men," Dorian says, fully turning his body away from Halward, "my father disapproves."

Cadash is distantly angry, but unsurprised. Were Dorian an Orzammar noble instead of Tevinter, Cadash and his fellows would have been called upon to 'fix' him long enough to attempt for an heir. Cadash himself had only been pushed on one client of that type, and it was with that client that he'd had his most 'successful attempts'.

As Dorian continues to speak, pushing back against the narrative Halward is trying to construct of an angry rebellious son and a desperate father, he almost wants to laugh with the irony of it. These things always start and end in blood, it seems.

The desperate father, willing to strip his son of love and self to further his legacy. The rebellious son, reduced to an acceptable husk, screaming on the inside. The whole exchange leaves him numb, his voice colder than usual when he suggests they go. But Dorian agrees, and as Cadash follows after him (watching his flank) he spares a look at Halward; were he a different man, he might take in the slumped shoulders and sunken eyes and feel pity, or anger, or satisfaction. The man he is walks away.

They don't linger in Redcliffe, their travel supplies still packed; Sera makes to complain, but looks between Dorian and him and closes her mouth instead. Cadash hears the conversations Cole tries to have with Dorian on the ride back, but doesn't listen (doesn't tell Cole to stop; at least  _ he's _ trying to  _ help _ ). When they cross Skyhold's bridge, Dorian disappears up the tower, and Fritjof fights against years of conditioning telling him not to follow.

He loses that fight at first, going up to his own quarters. He writes the barest of reports for Leliana, having spotted one of her agents as they exited Redcliffe's tavern, then reads missives til his eyes cross. His avoidance reaches cowardly levels when he reaches into his travel pack, opening and applying the elfroot balm Sera 'slipped' him to his anchored hand. 

With that meaningless task done, he has enough fuel to shame himself into action, descending into the main hall in formals just disheveled enough to make Josephine wince. 

Solas is occupying his rotunda as usual, casting waves of what Cadash assumes to be different types of magic over an artifact, stopping to take notes after each attempt. He acknowledges Cadash's presence with a nod but doesn't look up from his work.  _ No excuse to delay, then _ .

Dorian's alcove is practically at the top of the staircase, and Fritjof is certain he can hear his plated boots echo against the stone as he walks up it. When he sees him, however, he reconsiders his certainty. Stood facing the window, Dorian is the picture of inebriation, his hair and clothes disheveled as he sways on his feet, a half-empty wine glass held loosely at his side.

Calculating the best way to approach him proves impossible. Cadash has seen him drunk of course—the man overindulges even by Tevinter standards, though more rarely than he lets others believe—has seen him through his grief, even born the brunt of rare fits of frustration. This is more than that, a different vulnerability he knows, but cannot name. 

Fritjof hardly remembers his parents, having been 'taken in' by the broader Cadash Family at a young age, and the shunning he'd received when he transitioned felt more like vindication than betrayal. His concept of family is forever warped by the Carta; it has always been dark and distant and controlling.

It's clear that for Dorian, that wasn't always the case.

As he finds himself resorting to more and more frequently, Cadash waits for Dorian to make the first move. Yet he doesn't. He's made no effort to hide his presence, practically blocking the exit to the alcove, but as time drag on with no acknowledgement he clears his throat.

Dorian isn't startled. He'd known Cadash was there, then, unless he's so drunk to simply not care who sees him (Fritjof doubts he could get to that point with all the drink in Thedas; his awareness of others' perception of him seems as ingrained in Dorian as the perception of others in himself).

He turns his gaze to him in an elegant motion that blends with his swaying; "He's a good man, my father. Deep down. He taught me principle is important. He cares for me in his way, but he won't ever change," Dorian looks back out the window. "I can't forgive him for what he did. I won't."

"Good," slips out of his mouth almost without his say, and Dorian spins his whole body to face him, surprise evident. Cadash may not know what to say, but Fritjof apparently has some idea. "If I were really Andraste's Herald, I'd tell you forgiveness is the only way to heal, to truly move on from what happened between you. Maybe it's my dwarven heresy, but I think that's nugshit," that gets a snort out of Dorian, but his eyes are still wide, confusion warring with that vulnerability, drink leaving him as open as a child. For someone usually so inseparable from his mask, it's… Unsettling. "If he wants forgiveness, he can take it up with his god."

Blinking as if trying to clear his vision, Dorian stares openly at him. When Cadash makes no move to speak further, he verbalizes his confusion: "That's it? No reprimand? No prying into what horrid things my father  _ planned  _ to do to me? You do love your questions." It's meant to be teasing. Yet there's a certain  _ want _ in it.

"For some reason, I don't think an interrogation is what you want right now." Cadash steps forward then, not enough to enter Dorian's personal space, but enough to block him from prying eyes.

An action that conveniently subjects him to  _ Dorian's _ prying eyes. "Oh? What is it you  _ think _ I want, then?" The swaying pulls their faces closer, Fritjof feeling the other man's breath on his skin, wine and ozone wafting over him. 

Cadash knows the game; Dorian's goading him, trying to push until he caves in. Then Dorian can submit to his advances, getting what he wants and never having to ask for it. He knows, and he refuses to play. "I think you'll want the world to stop spinning in a few hours. What you  _ should _ want is a pitcher of water and some sleep."

Annoyance flashes in those grey eyes, swirling with that same unsteady want, but he sets his half-empty glass down with a chuckle; "How chivalrous; did they teach you that in the Carta?" And then it's Dorian who takes a step closer. They aren't pressed together, but only just. Fritjof doesn't step back, doesn't know if he _could_ , and Dorian speaks his next words directly to his lips: "But I'm done being told what I _should_ _want_."

It could barely be called a kiss; Dorian presses their mouths together, bracing himself with a hand to Cadash's chest. The taste of alcohol is overwhelming, his teeth clash painfully with Cadash's upper lip, and Cadash reciprocates none of it, as still as the Paragon statues.

As soon as his intoxicated brain feels this, Dorian is pulling away, face awash with hurt, shame, and  _ fear _ : "Inquisitor, if I misread—"

"You're drunk, Dorian," he says with a softness he didn't know he still possessed; "you're drunk, and you've just cut ties with the person you love who hurt you the most. You should—you  _ deserve _ to rest."

Dorian nods once, shaken, and half-heartedly smooths his hair with his hands. He won't look Fritjof in the eye. "In the morning, I hope you won't think less of me for this…  _ display _ ," he mutters eventually. Brushing past, his lithe form easily slips out, but Fritjof won't let him slip away. 

He stops him; his hand meets the exposed skin of his shoulder, barely there, and Dorian stills. "I don't think less of you."  _ Don't, you know how it will end _ —"More, if possible."

Those eyes finally look at him again—wide now, with confusion and fear and  _ hope _ —and Dorian brings his hand to rest lightly over his own. "The things you say." His platitude poses a whispered promise, and Fritjof presses their palms together, returning it. 

Both their hands fall away, but their eyes stay locked as Dorian walks to the stairs. When he must finally look away, it's like a fire burned down to embers and a tinder taking flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha long time no see let's pretend it hasn't been seven months. To the three ppl actually interested in this, i apologize, i started writing my inquisitor merrill fic and with finishing my time at university+health issues+the state of the world i only really had the energy to work on one fic at a time.  
> but i chipped away at this chapter when i could and here it is! i made this interaction even more emotional and conflicted under the assumption that since jof (god i can't wait until he opens up enough that people call him jof, fritjof is a mental mouthful) hides away instead of immediately talking to dorian like the inq does in canon, dorian gets started on that drinking he said hed be doing.  
> i dont like choosing the kiss right after the quest with his father (nooot a great time to start a relationship) but drunk dorian just latches onto that source of affection and approval. dorian baby lets get you some marcus aurelius know no shame  
> next up: jof and dorian getting together despite their better judgement, bull is still flirtatious and attractive, and the Qun sends their response to Adamant

**Author's Note:**

> [fritjof playlist (spotify link)](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1uqfrpaSbZiExISIusbgRB?si=9G7tt_mqRqyMhtRs4bUxGQ)  
> [iron bull playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/74rs5VIF69c4GNqCAe31Hz?si=uDYmNFIwSMCcbPdBpgoHww)  
> [dorian playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5aa8cR11r2h7VOKGCNnk0C?si=lxYrg3thTtG0fCPcw-G0UQ)  
> [my friend's bull & dorian playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0ZzlH7kveaoMPhWHDssWWT?si=1CiJpz2rR8WHmyUJsJVjIg) (ideal listening for any sexy scenes)


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